


und wenn ein lied

by scheherazade



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Coming Out, M/M, Possibly Unrequited Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-05
Updated: 2011-08-05
Packaged: 2017-10-23 06:52:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wanted just this one, unbroken thing, and it held him closer than fear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	und wenn ein lied

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【翻译】歌声起时](https://archiveofourown.org/works/523940) by [Absent_Attender (Eusta)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eusta/pseuds/Absent_Attender)



> For the [footballkink2 prompt](http://footballkink2.livejournal.com/2971.html?thread=251547#t251547) asking for a fic based off [this](http://loewsmiserables.livejournal.com/191551.html) and related statements by German NT players. Title from [Xavier Naidoo's song of the same name](http://lyricstranslate.com/en/und-wenn-ein-lied-and-when-song.html-0).

  


_"For someone who [comes out], it would be very difficult. An openly gay footballer would be exposed to abusive comments."_

—[Philipp Lahm](http://www.google.com/hostednews/afp/article/ALeqM5jPGRYc1xEQunPddVP8W62kmr8OOw?docId=CNG.9aef0fe0f3c562395d782f7a0bfb3b01.691), May 18, 2011

  


* * *  


  
As soon as the words leave his mouth and the reporter’s eyes spark with that look of, _Aha, there’s the quote we’ve been looking for,_ Philipp knows that this is all about to go to hell in very short order.

"But I have no problems with homosexuals whatsoever, whatever their choices," he tries—in vain, as the reporter is already nodding and flipping his notepad closed. Shit, Philipp doesn’t say out loud. Shit. He forces himself to smile and return the polite _thank you for your time, it was a pleasure,_ though it was anything but.

He walks back to his car, drops his head against the steering and squeezes his eyes shut. It’s no good. The scene from the interview replays in his mind, black and white in endless loop. _Philipp, in your opinion, why is it that gay footballers never come out of the closet?_ Stupid. So stupid, and he’d fallen for it. He'd given an honest answer, disarmed by the reporter's sympathetic tone and all the innocuous questions that had come before. He’d gone and spoken his mind, even though he knew that wasn’t part of the script. Knew that he was supposed to answer in the affirmative, support his Federation's stance but otherwise remain pleasantly neutral on the situation.

But how could he be neutral, how could he be calm, responsible, politically correct and dead to reality when months ago Bastian had already been talking about it, invited them all over for drinks on a warm October afternoon, and somewhere between the jokes and the PlayStation tournament Toni had said, "You’re not serious, Bastian. You won’t actually do it, will you?"

Toni’s voice carried in the momentary lull in conversation, and Mario plopped down beside Bastian, “What’s he not serious about?" even as Thomas chimed in, "You’re doing what?"

Bastian began to shake his head, but Thomas had already slithered out of Holger’s grasp and all but sat on Toni as he tried to find space on a sofa that had no room left for even a hobbit, much less a lanky Bavarian forward.

"Is this about the TV?" Thomas asked. "Are you really getting a giant one that’s going to cover the whole wall? Because that’s kind of over the top but it would be a— ow!"

Toni somehow managed to look both innocent and completely unrepentant as he smoothed the front of his shirt, elbowing a snickering Bastian while Thomas gave them both an injured look from his new position on the floor. Philipp smiled to himself behind his beer. Mario rolled his eyes and very casually stretched his arms, letting it come down again across the back of the sofa and ever so slightly around Bastian’s shoulders. Toni leaned away from the pair of them instinctively, but otherwise no one so much as blinked. Philipp told himself not to either.

Miro nudged Thomas with his foot and nodded at the armchair next to his. "Plenty of room here, you know. So what’s this about a TV, Bastian?"

Philipp watched the smile on Bastian’s lips slip away to be replaced with something softer, more determined. "It’s not," he started, then stopped. "Actually, why don’t you all sit down. A serious topic deserves a serious setting, right?"

"Where did you even hear about the TV thing?" Holger asked Thomas, coming to perch on the back of the latter’s recently-acquired seat. Thomas tried to poke him in the knee and Holger intercepted his hands with seamless ease. Philipp wondered if the others saw it too: the way Holger held onto Thomas’ hand for a second longer than necessary, the way Thomas leaned into Holger’s side. It was pretty hard to miss, honestly. But only if you were looking.

Philipp perched on an ottoman beside Miro, and when all seven of them were settled in a rough semicircle, Miro turned to Bastian, "What’s on your mind? Besides whatever these two are going on about, that is."

Thomas opened his mouth and Holger elbowed him in the head to shut him up. Toni rubbed at his eyebrows, looking as if he would very much like to pinch the bridge of his nose. The look of concern was nothing new on the midfielder, Philipp thought. But the way his glance flickered at Bastian was.

Bastian shrugged. "I was just wondering," he said, "you guys been keeping up with the news and stuff?" His gaze flickered in Philipp’s direction, and Philipp felt wariness closing in around him like armor. Especially as Mario asked if he meant football or world news, to which Bastian replied, "Football. I mean, I have high expectations of the kids, but I know their attention span."

Amidst an incipient storm of protests from the youngsters in question, Philipp felt that wariness harden into resignation. "Bastian." He didn’t raise his voice, but silence fell as soon as he opened his mouth anyway, and suddenly Philipp felt the weight on his shoulders, his left arm, and he was just so damn _tired_ of it all, "Bastian, if this is about Ballack—"

"Jesus, can we _not_ —" Holger cut in, but Bastian shook his head to intercept both of them,

"No, it’s not that. It’s...well, I’ve talked to Sarah about it, but I wanted to ask you guys since you’re actually on the team and all." Bastian turned his glass slowly in his hands. "I’ve been thinking a lot lately about all these things. And I was wondering. I wanted to ask you guys. How would you feel if one of your teammates came out of the closet? Was openly gay?"

The moment fell with the weight of a thousand silent voices, a hush louder than any roar. Philipp saw that pained expression cross Toni’s face again, saw Miro steeple his hands and press them to his lips, saw Holger and Thomas exchange a glance, and Mario— Gomez was looking directly at Bastian, the corners of his mouth curving into a smile.

"I think that’d be wonderful," said Gomez. "And, I mean, hypothetically, teammates already know each other so it wouldn’t be such a huge shock."

Miro shook his head. "It would be a shock to the rest of the world."

"But things are changing," Bastian said. "It’s building, people are talking, and it might be the time. Which is why I’ve been thinking."

"Fan culture’s different," Philipp cut in. He could hear the hope edging every one of Bastian’s words, and it stirred in him a nameless fear. "It would be better for a retired player to come out first. They’d have a buffer against the initial outcry, the fact that they’re retired, and still raise the issue at the same time."

"And do you know anyone like that?" Bastian asked, eyes piercing.

"No, but—"

"Exactly. Urban tried, but it didn’t do shit. It’s just not going to happen that way. But it’s different for current, top-flight players. If someone were to—"

"Can we stop talking in hypotheticals?" Thomas blurted out. Philipp saw Holger’s hand tighten on his shoulder. "Someone, somehow, maybe. Look. We all know each other, right? Let’s just talk about this if we’re gonna talk about it."

And the truth was, they did. They all knew each other well enough to read the unhappiness writ large on Holger’s face, the sad look in Miro’s eyes as he watched Bastian, and Philipp said,

"No." The word slipped from his tongue into the utter silence. "This isn’t going to get anyone anywhere. I'm sorry, but you all know what it’s like out there."

"He’s right," Toni said suddenly and Philipp started. He’d almost forgotten about Toni, tucked away in the corner of the sofa, head in his hands and left palm pressed to his brow line as if he could force a headache away with sheer applied pressure. "Talk up the positivity crap all you want, Mario. It doesn’t change reality. And we already have enough problems with football this year without worrying about that stuff on top of it, so." Toni lifted his head a moment to give all of them a baleful look before dropping his gaze again. "Sorry. Can we talk about something else?"

"You can’t just," Thomas began, but Holger shook him, murmured, "Leave it, Thomas," and Thomas deflated into his seat, leveling a glare at Toni instead.

"That’s really no way to talk to your elders," Miro remarked. As forced as the light-hearted tone was, it did manage to drag a smile out of Bastian and an actual chuckle from Gomez. Toni muttered an apology, and Philipp tried to relax the muscles in his face; his jaw felt stiff.

The party broke up early that evening, with Toni pleading exhaustion and Miro racing the clock to make it home in time to say goodnight to his kids. Thomas drove Holger home. Gomez lingered for a while longer while Philipp helped Bastian clean up. He heard the front door clack shut as he was rinsing out the wine glasses, then Bastian wandered back to the kitchen, hands in his pockets. Philipp turned off the tap and looked for something to dry his hands on.

"Here." Bastian held out a blue kitchen towel. "Thanks for helping out. You didn’t have to."

Philipp shrugged, examining the faint embroidery detail on the corner of the towel. If he squinted, he thought he could make out two sets of initials. "I wanted to.” He folded the towel and placed it beside the sink, before turning back to face Bastian. "I’m here often enough. Might as well do something to earn my keep, right?"

Bastian barely acknowledged Philipp’s encouraging smile. "Why’d you say all that, earlier, when we were talking?" He’d crossed his legs at the ankles, belying the tension beneath the casual tone of his voice. "You stopped Thomas just when he was trying to make it a real conversation."

"I was just—" _afraid_ , Philipp didn’t say, because that wasn’t true, he wasn’t, he was just, "—trying to give a different perspective. Gomez can be overly confident about these things. He’s not always right." _And he’s definitely not right about this._

"Mario understands that hiding can hurt more than anything they could throw at you."

"But you know that’s not true." The knowledge of just _how_ untrue that was squeezed Philipp’s lungs like a pair of fists clenched too tight. "Think of your family, your friends—"

"If they’re really my friends, they wouldn’t mind."

Philipp stared at him, and in his throat the words struggled to rise. _But I am, and I care. That’s why I mind. That’s why. Because..._ Because he could see it in his mind's eye. He could see Bastian sitting in that interview chair with a sympathetic reporter across from him, a discrete camera blinking red to match the scarf looped elegantly around Bastian's neck, a scarf like [a rope and a note and an empty garage in 1998](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Justin_Fashanu) and Philipp didn't even know how to make his thoughts go on from there. He didn't for one moment doubt Bastian's conviction—but he knew the sound of fear, of questions, of paparazzi cameras and 70,000 voices roaring for blood and glory. It was not a sound he ever wanted to hear turned against one man.

 _I can't let you do something so stupid,_ he wanted to say, but it wasn't what he meant. No matter how he arranged the words, it still sounded too much like disapproval or disbelief, and those were the last things he could ever feel for Bastian.

Philipp dropped his gaze. "I should go."

"You’re welcome to stay over," Bastian said, the same way he always did, no matter how late or early or whatever circumstance. But there was something like a challenge in the edge of Bastian's voice, and Philipp didn't know how to meet it, so he dodged.

"I should be getting home. Claudia, you know." He made a vague gesture with his hands. "Thanks, though."

Bastian shrugged. "Anytime."

  


* * *  


  
**Germany and Bayern star Mario Gomez urges gay footballers to go public**  
[guardian.co.uk](http://www.guardian.co.uk/football/2010/nov/11/germany-bayern-mario-gomez-gay-footballers) | Thursday 11 November 2010

_A leading German footballer has urged gay players to come out and called for a radical rethink about homosexuality in the sport._

_The Bayern Munich striker Mario Gomez has broken ranks with the football establishment, including members of his own team and the German football federation, who have warned that coming out could destroy a player's career._

_But Gomez, who has not said whether he is gay, told a German magazine that being honest about their sexuality would improve gay players' performance._

_"They would play as if they had been liberated," Gomez said. "Being gay should no longer be a taboo topic."_

  


* * *  


  
Picking up the magazine had been a bad idea. Picking up his phone had been a worse idea, and hitting 9 on speed dial may just prove to be the worst idea Philipp has had in a long time—but he didn’t care. Not then. He drew in a breath with each ring, trying to assemble his thoughts into something at least approximating order.

"Hey, what’s up?"

"Did you see the interview Gomez gave?" he blurted, almost before Bastian had finished speaking.

A pause. "Which one?"

"The one he gave to Bunte." Glossy pages crinkled in Philipp’s hand as his fingers tightened of their own accord. "The one where he told gay footballers to out themselves, like it’s the easiest thing in the world."

Another silence from Bastian’s end. Then, "Yeah, I did. What about it?"

"It’s idiotic, that’s what’s about it." Philipp told himself not to shout. Claudia was out out on the veranda, but sound carried unfortunately well on the first floor of their house. "Did you know he was going to do this?"

"He can say what he wants. Why should I care?"

"Because we all know what he’s talking about! Even if the press hasn’t caught on yet, the rest of the team knows at least. Almost anyone who knows anything, when they read this, they’ll know. He has _no right_ —"

"If it makes you feel better, yes, Mario did call me before he agreed to the interview." Bastian’s tone was arctic. "He told me what he was going to say if they asked him. And I think he has every right to be supportive of people he cares about."

Even the ice in Bastian’s voice couldn’t freeze the anger burning through the rational side of Philipp’s brain, the side telling him now would be a good time to shut up, to apologize, hang up. The words tumbled from his lips,

"No, he doesn’t. Not this. He’s not being supportive. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. If he’s really that concerned, then he can just out himself, but giving an interview like this, it’s pretty clear that the only thing he wants to liberate you from are your p—"

" _Don’t_ ," Bastian snarled. Philipp could hear him breathing. "Just don’t, all right? He was trying to do the right thing."

"But it wasn’t the right thing to do." Why didn’t Bastian understand? "It’s just going to blow up in the press, draw even more negative attention—"

"Well maybe that wouldn’t happen if you could all just be more like him."

And before Philipp could even finish forming the syllables of Bastian’s name, the line went dead.

  


* * *  


  
By the end of the week, Gomez’s agent had forced him to at least make an attempt at damage control. Philipp watched the interview, watched as Gomez stuck by his _I still think that when something’s bothering you, you can’t play as well as you should_ line. But he had to admit that any liberation would be shackled under public outcry, foreshadowed by the media attention that had swamped him—and all he’d done was speak his mind.

Something not unlike an I-told-you-so settled smug and heavy in Philipp’s chest, though it wasn’t as satisfying as he’d thought it would be, watching Gomez with those sad eyes, a frown weighing on the corners of his mouth.

At least it didn’t affect his performance on the pitch, not more than his usual mental state did, at at any rate. And practices were going smoothly enough—so long as you didn’t scratch the surface. Bastian hadn’t spoken more than two words to him since the phone call, so Philipp just watched. He watched from the sidelines as Mark put a hand lightly on Bastian’s shoulder, his head bent close in a gesture of comfort. Toni snapped at Thomas with rising frequency, and as they filed back to the locker rooms Bastian sought out Gomez, leaving Philipp to walk with their captain in silence.

No one talked about it, though Philipp knew they’d all read the Gomez interview or at least heard about it on the news. They all knew. Even the managing staff probably knew, at this point. Philipp wondered how Bastian was handling his agent. He wondered if something should be done about the situation. He wondered why he wanted to do something, even if there was nothing to be done. Even though there was no situation. They just didn’t talk about it.

The rational part of him knew that things went wrong when they didn’t talk. Philipp thought about railroad tracks on [a cold November day](http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport2/hi/football/internationals/8353733.stm), one year ago, remembering. He tried to imagine a fear strong enough to obliterate, tried to imagine how it would grow in silence, unspoken, lurking like a thin sheet of ice, the cracks spreading beneath the soles of their feet.

No one spoke, so no one knew. But looking away didn’t mean the ice wasn’t still there. _It isn’t right,_ something in him insisted, and it was the same voice that kept insisting he was afraid.

He pushed that voice away. Right and wrong were flexible in a relative world. Life was not, and nor were other, more tangible truths.

  


* * *  


  
"Is he actually going to leave?" Holger asked quietly as December went on and still Bastian had no new contract to appease the fans’ growing anxiety. _Will he or won't he?_ Philipp didn’t know.

He didn’t know, so he said nothing as they watched Thomas, ahead in line, run up to the ball and tap it to the left corner. Butt stretched and saved it with ease, bouncing in place to keep his muscles warm for the duration of the practice. Holger’s sigh misted white in the cold as he moved up to take his own penalty kick.

Behind him, Philipp could hear Mark and Miro talking about their kids and, near the back of the line, Diego laughing at something Bastian just said. Up ahead, Holger caught Butt leaning left and slotted the ball neatly into the opposite corner of the net.

Philipp felt a little like that right now: wrong-footed, caught off-guard by how suddenly this had all gone pear-shaped. Since that phone call, he and Bastian had maintained a steady radio silence as far as meaningful communication went. It wasn't just about the transfer rumors—it was about everything—but the rumors certainly rankled, too. Even though Philipp knew that if Bastian really was planning on leaving, they would all find out soon enough—soon as everything was settled, the ink drying on the new contracts and Bastian already on his way out of the country, and not a moment before.

He knew, but it didn’t satisfy the part of him that wanted, _demanded_ the right to know, to a part of Bastian’s life, as he’d grown accustomed. But now, instead of Philipp, Bastian had Gomez at his side before and after practice and every other time in between. Philipp would wait by his car sometimes until Mark or Tymo walked by and asked why he was still here, and only then would Philipp remember that Bastian didn’t carpool with him anymore. That Bastian had gone home already, in fact, leaving Philipp waiting in the cold for a memory.

The chill burned into his skin, a constant reminder. He let his eyes follow Holger as the younger man jogged past on his way to the back of the line again. Philipp wrenched his gaze forward before he reached Bastian. No, the burning wasn’t from the cold; it was within.

Butt gathered himself and signaled he was ready again. Philipp pushed off into a jog, a run, threw all his weight behind the shot and sent the ball rocketing into the top right corner, a good meter clear of the surprised keeper’s fingertips. Someone let out a low whistle, followed by a scattering of muffled applause. His heartbeat roared in his ears.

After practice, as the locker room emptied of players one by one, Holger came up to him and tried to apologize. Philipp cut him off after the second word with a shake of his head. He managed something like a smile, "Don’t worry about it. Any of it, okay? You can’t always be responsible for other people." Holger’s eyes said he wasn’t convinced, but he nodded and let it go.

Philipp replayed his own words over in his head as he walked slowly out to his car. _You can’t always be responsible._ He was the last to leave, and the hallways were as quiet as the locker room. Wintry sunlight greeted him in the parking lot, glinting off the few vehicles still dotting the white-marked spaces and blinding the vision from his eyes. He blinked—and froze mid-step.

Bastian was leaning against Philipp’s car, hands in his pockets and a scarf wrapped twice around his neck. He turned his head, saw Philipp. Raised one hand in a faltering wave.

"Hey," said Bastian once Philipp was within earshot. "I was waiting for you."

And that wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair, was what Philipp would think to himself later, searching for justification as he asked himself why his pride in that moment hardened to edges and corners of steel. Bastian’s expression was open, anxiously hopeful in the shadow of his cap and the knit scarf just blurring into his chin, and all Philipp could think of was Gomez casually draping his arms around Bastian’s shoulders, recalling a rush of a sweet, black rage.

"Waiting? What for?" he heard himself say and saw Bastian flinch at the dismissive tone. Philipp forced himself to walk the last few steps around to the driver’s side, hands gripping his keys so tightly he fancied they creaked rather than clinked.

"Wanted to say hi, that’s all," Bastian said softly. "I missed you."

"It hasn’t even been an hour since practice ended."

"Why do you always have to _do_ that?"

Philipp returned the glare Bastian leveled at him over the roof of his car. "Do what?"

" _That_. You want to lecture me about everything, get all up in my face about my personal life, but when it comes to anything that really matters, you turn and run. Stop being so fucking obtuse, Philipp. It’s not cute."

Philipp yanked the car door open with more force than necessary, his knuckles white on the handle. If he had more strength in his fingers, there would probably be a dent in the car roof by now; as it was, the metal remained unyielding.

"So that’s it?" Bastian said. "You’re going to run away from me?"

" _Fuck off_." Philipp saw Bastian take a step back this time, and that made his anger flare even brighter. "What do you want from me, Bastian? You think I haven’t been sorry enough, so now you want to pick a fight?"

"You’ve barely talked to me in a month." Was that hurt in Bastian’s tone? Absurd. If anyone was hurting, it was _Philipp_ , not the other way around. "Maybe you’re fine, but I fucking missed you. Is that a crime?"

Philipp turned his head away and forced a laugh through the burning in his chest. He shook his head, thinking of the days he’d waited right here, in this exact place, waiting and waiting only to have Miro walk by finally and tell him, with that devastating look of _pity_ in his eyes, that Bastian had gone home with Mario, but did Philipp want to come over and say hi to Luan and Noah, maybe? Philipp turned him down every time, lest the sympathy snuff out the last bit of dignity he had within himself.

"Sorry," he said now, voice rasping on the edge of incredulity, "I’m sorry we can’t all spend every waking moment of every day with you, Bastian. But that’s just how it is."

He ducked into the car before Bastian had a chance to respond, slammed the door, and drove off. He didn’t look back, so he didn’t see the lone figure standing in the midst of an emptying parking lot, the sun setting over Allianz Arena heart-red against white.

  


* * *  


  
Then, after they beat St. Pauli 3-0, Bastian took the microphone and said he was staying—he was staying, he was kissing the crest and stretching out his hand toward the 60,000 voices roaring exultation, conviction in his uplifted eyes.

Thomas let out a whoop as he caught Toni in a headlock, shouting, "I told you he would! Didn't I tell you he would," and Philipp felt his heart was a hot air balloon straining against its ropes.

Miro invited them over for a late dinner and an impromptu celebration. Toni begged off for the night, but Thomas talked Holger into coming along, so Philipp drove the pair of them and was glad for their easy banter to distract him on the road. At Miro's home, Philipp split his time chatting with Andi and watching the Ribery girls construct an increasingly elaborate game of make believe around Luan and Noah while the twins ignored them in favor of crashing toy cars against the walls.

After the last morsel of Sylvia's casserole had disappeared and the plates cleared away, Gomez said, "All right, gentlemen, a toast to Herr Schweinsteiger. Way to keep us in the dark until the last minute and drive the fans nuts, but now they love you more than ever."

"Hear, hear for the drama," laughed someone, to which Bastian snorted, "We're not toasting _Mario_."

Amidst a chorus of laughter, Gomez tossed his head and raised his glass, "Damn straight. To Bastian!" and they echoed him in gesture and word. Philipp clinked glasses with Holger and tipped back his drink. With the alcohol humming warm contentment in his veins, he even managed a smile when Bastian caught his eye from across the room.

"You gonna go talk to him?" Holger asked.

Just a day ago, Philipp might have snapped at the younger man against his better instincts, but a soft warmth was thawing at the ice that tried to burn his lungs whenever he thought of Bastian. He nodded, waited until he saw Bastian break away from Miro and Gomez, heading for the kitchen; Philipp drained the rest of his glass and set it down, murmured a quick, "Be right back," and went after him.

He found Bastian reading the label on a bottle of wine, which he set down once he saw Philipp. "I offered to grab something for Miro," Bastian said, unprompted, "but I forgot which one he told me to get. You know anything about reds?" Bastian shrugged at the bottle on the counter, a small smile on his lips, but wariness darkened the edges of his eyes.

Philipp never wanted to see that look on his face again. "Bastian, I'm sorry."

"What? No, it's okay, I'll just get—"

"I meant about Wednesday, after practice. I shouldn't have snapped at you, and I'm sorry for—for whatever the fuck's gone wrong this past month between us." Philipp paused to take a breath, running his left hand along the counter top. _And I wasn't okay, whatever you think, because I did miss you._ He sounded out the sentence in his head, wondering if it would come across the same spoken aloud.

He never got the chance. Bastian took two steps and crossed the distance between them, right hand reaching out to cover Philipp's left, fingers curling under his palm to squeeze and hold. Philipp fought a shudder at his human warmth after the cold of the marble counter; he tightened his fingers, as well.

And Bastian said, "It's okay," even as Philipp shook his head, "I mean, it wasn't okay that you just drove off like that, but if we can still talk, then that much is okay. Yeah?"

Philipp stared up at the faint smile on Bastian's lips and wondered when the boy he'd once known had become a man with eyes older than his years. Because Bastian had been right, on Wednesday: they weren't good at talking about the things that really mattered. Or rather, Philipp wasn't; Bastian seemed to have picked up the skill, somewhere along the ways and days when Philipp had failed to notice the changes in this man standing opposite him now.

"Yeah," he echoed back, wondering at the incongruously defiant challenge in Bastian's gaze, "yeah. We'll talk. I'm still sorry. But we'll talk."

Bastian hummed a sound of agreement. "Drive me home after?"

"Of course."

It didn't exorcise the shadows of lines on Bastian's face nor the memory of silence and cold, but at the end of the evening, Bastian touched Philipp's elbow lightly and said that he'd talked Mario into giving Thomas and Holger a ride, so they could go. In the car, Bastian was a soft shape beside him as he drove through streets pierced by dark and city lights. Philipp told himself not to look, to focus on the road ahead of him.

"How's Sarah?" As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew it had been the wrong question to bring up. Bastian shrugged, but his shoulders were tense as he delivered a vague response, and Philipp fished for another conversation topic.

"You should've seen Holger's face when you said you were staying," he tried, and this time Bastian cracked a smile.

"I bet Thomas made fun of him for it, whatever else he did."

"He was too busy yelling at Toni about how he'd known all along. You didn't actually tell him, did you?"

"Of course not," Bastian laughed. "He's just excitable. You know how he gets sometimes."

And this was easy—this gossip about their teammates and idle speculation for the future. Philipp drove with one eye on the road, the majority of his attention taken up with watching as Bastian relaxed, word by word, street by street.

"They're good kids," said Philipp as he turned into Bastian's driveway.

"Yeah." Bastian's voice was softer than it had been a moment ago. Philipp parked the car and turned to face him: Bastian managed to exude a sort of effortless grace, even when slumped in the passenger seat of Philipp's car, elbow propped against the window and cheek against his palm. "Still feels weird calling them the kids, doesn't it? Wasn't so long ago when we were."

"Then you got old," said Philipp. "I know. It happens to even the best of us."

Bastian smiled at the joke, didn't laugh. He looked out the window onto his darkened driveway, the house beyond with a single light glowing on the second floor.

"I talked to Manuel," Bastian said.

"About what?"

"You know what." There was no accusation in Bastian's voice this time, no frustration; just calm.

"When?"

"Sweden."

When Philipp hadn't been there. Of course. "What did he say?"

"He was supportive. Probably feels obligated to be." Bastian shrugged. "I don't think he has any strong feelings about it, either way."

"He's still young."

"I know."

"Bastian," Philipp began. Hesitated. He felt like a tightrope walker, the words his path over the ravine that was the silence between them; one misplaced foot and that was it. He breathed. "I'm asking because as a friend I care, all right? But are you really going to—"

Bastian made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "Don't worry about it, all right? It might not be for another few years yet. I've got time, with this new contract."

"Your contract?"

"Why do you think negotiations took so long? If or when I finally decide to take it to the press, they won't be able to touch me. The bastards tried to sneak in the same clauses they'd had under my last one, but it's all gone now." Bastian's voice was flat. "I made sure of it."

And it wasn't fair, Philipp thought. It wasn't right that Bastian should even have to negotiate for something like that, something that should have been his anyway: his own business and no one else's. He reached out, needing to reassure—to be reassured—but Bastian barely clasped his hand before letting go again.

Philipp drew back, fingers curling into his palm. "I'm sorry," he said.

"It's not your fault."

"I wish I could make it better."

"So do I."

Bastian pushed open the passenger door, and Philipp failed to find the words in the seconds before it closed again, leaving him with only an echo of a soft good night.

  


* * *  


  
It went on like this:

After the last practice of the year, Bastian waited for Philipp, and they left together to have dinner with Sarah. It was almost normal, the three of them spending a quiet evening in, except for the part where Sarah looked like she was biting back words every time she looked at Philipp. If Bastian noticed, he said nothing.

They beat Stuttgart 5-3 and that was it for the old year. Bastian and Sarah called him on the morning of the twenty-fifth to say happy Christmas; Philipp just managed to return the sentiment before Claudia co-opted the phone with a sprightly, "Sarah? Happy Christmas! Hey, I thought about what you were saying about the New Year's party..." He listened to her voice fade toward the living room, then turned back to his laptop and the email from Van Gaal.

So January came and took Mark with its leaving. Philipp touched the band on his arm, the ghost of another in his mind. He felt the world turning on the axis of generations, and he was a gear between the cogs of an immense machine. He didn't dare ask if the others felt it, if they too knew the weight of achievement crushing them into place. In the tunnel before the Bremen match, Bastian clapped him on the shoulder—less than a hug, more than words—and Philipp stood a little taller for his vice-captain twice over.

Bastian still had Gomez plastered to his side more often than not, but Philipp learned to look the other way. Philipp turned down an interview request from Bunte, and Bastian didn't pry. The things unsaid remained like spider-vein cracks in ice, but Philipp thought he could live with this. Bastian had said they would be okay, after all, as long as they could talk. And they would. Just not now—not while the smile returning to Bastian's eyes was slow as waiting for spring.

And that was how it should have ended, with eventualities fading to memory. Bastian would retire a hero, lauded and loved, the streets and stadiums overflowing with red, red glory. They would look back on 2010, 2011 and smile indulgently at what hot-headed young men they'd been. And they would be happy, still friends. It would be enough.

Or it should have been.

  


* * *  


  
The night before the friendly against Italy, Philipp went up to Per's room to find Manuel already there. The young goalkeeper was sitting at the foot of the bed, elbows on his knees and head resting in his hands; he lifted his eyes for when Philipp opened the door.

"Hey," said Per. "Come in."

Philipp looked from Per to Manuel and back again. "I was just coming by to say hi. I can come back later if this is a bad time."

"No, no. Come in." Per held the door open for him so Philipp could only follow him side. "Manu and I were just talking, and I was gonna call you except he didn't want me to bother you. So it's good you're here. He needs to talk to you more than he needs me."

Manuel muttered something that sounded like, "Nothing's for certain yet," and Philipp wondered what had happened to cause the frightened look in his eyes. He pulled up a chair, tucking his legs close to avoid knocking his shins against Per's feet; the man was about two meters too tall for his own good.

"What's on your mind, Manuel?" Philipp asked, trying not to use what Thomas called his tell-mommy-what's-wrong-now voice. The only person who could get away with _that_ , as far as Philipp was concerned, was Miro, by sheer virtue of seniority.

They were young yet, and Manuel the youngest of all. He drew a breath that lifted both his shoulders like wings, exhaled, and said, "I'm probably not staying at Schalke past this season. They told me they've already got offers from other clubs. From abroad."

Philipp blinked. Well, this was...not completely unexpected. "Do you want to go abroad?"

"No." The unhappiness was painfully obvious in Manuel's voice. "I don't want to leave. If that's possible, I mean, which I know it isn't. I want to get better and play with big clubs and against bigger clubs, but I wish I could do that and stay where I am."

Per caught his eye and mouthed, _Manchester_ , and Philipp understood. "You wanted to talk to me because I had the same choice, to stay or go to the big clubs abroad." It wasn't a question, so he didn't frame it like one; Manuel nodded anyway. "And I turned down Barcelona when they came begging. Is that why? You want me to tell you why you should stay?"

Manuel shook his head. "I don't want to be convinced. I just. I want to know _why_."

"Because I wanted to." Philipp shrugged at the look on Manuel's face. "There were problems left and right back then, I know, but I loved my club and the place where I grew up, and that was enough for me."

"That's it?"

"That's quite a lot."

"I didn't mean," Manuel began, then flushed and closed his mouth. From the corner of his eye, Philipp saw Per doing his best to hide a smile. "I just meant, I guess, do you still think the same way now? Did you ever regret it?"

Philipp thought about it. "Yes," he replied eventually, "and yes. You're not going to be completely happy all the time with every decision you make, but your gut instinct is stronger than any conclusion you come to by over-thinking it. So just don't second-guess yourself. Does that make sense?"

"Do what makes you happiest," Per added.

"What if that's none of the above?" Manuel's voice was soft. "I'm going to piss off a lot of people either way. It's just a question of whether I want to make enemies of the management or the fans."

"They'll get over it on their own, or not, and either way that's their problem," said Philipp. "You're the only one who has to live with yourself."

"Don't tell that to the fans," Manuel said dryly.

"I won't if you won't," Philipp retorted, and smiled when Manuel managed a laugh.

"Yeah. Well." Manuel rubbed the back of his neck, a soft smile lingering on his lips. "Anyway. Thanks, both of you, for talking to me about this."

Per stood up as Manuel did. "You feeling better about it?"

Manuel nodded. "Enough to sleep, anyway." He collected a blue scarf that had been spooled on Per's desk, wrapping it snug around his neck. "Got a bit of a sore throat. Just a precaution," he said to Philipp's inquisitive look.

Per clapped him on the back. "Get your beauty rest. There's Italian ass that needs kicking tomorrow."

Manuel laughed at that and bid the both of them good night. Philipp waved distractedly, staring after the blue fringe of Manuel's scarf as it disappeared out the door. Per said something, and Philipp made a noncommittal noise, still trying to remember...

"...not even listening, are you?"

"Hm?" He looked up to find Per watching him with something like fond exasperation. Philipp tried a sheepish look. "I'm sorry, I was just. What were you saying?"

"I said, good work there, captain."

"You sound like Thomas. He calls it my tell-mother-what's-wrong act, can you believe him?"

Per chuckled as he sat down on the bed, stretching his long legs. "I can. Speaking of which, I was just talking with him and Badstuber earlier." The smile faded from Per's lips, "And I talked to Bastian. Don't take this the wrong way, because you know I don't like being nosy, but it's not hard to put two and two together, so..."

Philipp frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Bastian told me what he's decided, and from the youngsters' stories, I can tell you and him didn't exactly see eye to eye on it."

"We're over that now," Philipp told him. "We're fine."

"So you're okay with him giving an interview to Bunte and outing himself?" Per asked, and Philipp stiffened. Per sighed. "Why do you have a problem with Bastian wanting to do this, exactly?"

"Because he doesn't need to." Philipp actively focused on not clenching his jaw. "It's his own business, anyway, and things are fine right now. Can you even imagine what the backlash would be like, Per? There's no reason for him to go martyr himself."

"He'd probably get abused by the fans, like Manu will when he leaves Schalke." Per cocked his head. "You just told him to screw the haters and follow his heart. Why's it different for Bastian?"

"Because. Because Manuel needs to leave, for more reasons than one. Bastian doesn't—"

"He does, Philipp. He needs it the same way Manu needs more space to grow."

Philipp looked away. "It's different."

"It's really not," said Per. "I think the only difference is that you trust Manuel to tough it out, but for some reason you think Bastian can't."

"I don't think that."

"Then you just don't want him to have to go through that because you have feelings for him."

Philipp glared at Per's feet. He liked Per, he really did, but having a Talk with him was like laying out your soul in an open book. The man's insight was devastating when he chose to actually make use of it.

"No one should have to go through that," Philipp muttered.

A shifting silence followed his words. Then, "You're going to break his heart, you know."

Whatever Philipp had been expecting Per to say next, it certainly wasn't that.

"Come again?"

"You did the same thing to Timo, cared about him so much he couldn't help but fall in love with you, except you've got some misguided ideas about traditional families and not ruining friendships, so that was doomed before it even started." Per shrugged, his tone relentlessly matter-of-fact. "I’m just saying, don't do that to Bastian. It's not fair to him."

Philipp felt his throat working, but no words emerged. "I'm married," he managed at last, and Per gave him a look that could only be described as long-suffering,

"Exactly."

  


* * *  


  
**Neuer urges gay footballers to come out**  
[eurosport.com](http://uk.eurosport.yahoo.com/09022011/58/bundesliga-neuer-urges-gay-footballers.html) | Wed, 09 Feb

_Schalke and Germany goalkeeper Manuel Neuer has urged homosexual footballers to stop hiding their sexuality._

_The 24-year-old told a German celebrity magazine that coming out would lift a great weight from gay players' shoulders, and that fans would soon accept it._

_"Yes, those who are gay should say so. It relieves a burden," said Manuel Neuer in the magazine Bunte._

_"And the fans will get over it quickly. What matters is the performance delivered by the player, not his sexual preference."_

  


* * *  


  
Replace coming out with transferring clubs, Philipp thought, and Manuel might as well have been talking about the situation he himself would be in, come summer. _The Schalke fans will get over their loss. The Bayern fans will accept me. What matters is the performance I deliver in goal._ And Per was right: Philipp found that imaginary statement easier to accept than the words actually printed in the magazines. It wasn’t a comforting thought.

"A little bird told me it'll be your fault if we bag Schalke’s captain at the end of the season," Bastian remarked, the day before the return match against Dortmund.

It was late, and they were the last ones to leave the locker room after a particularly frustrating practice. The mid-week game against Inter had been brutal, and it had showed today: Mario missed the goal four times out of four during five-a-side, Holger fouled Arjen for absolutely no reason, and Philipp just felt _tired_ in the worst sense of the word. Van Gaal’s attempt at discussing a last-minute tactical change with him hadn’t helped.

He sank down onto a bench while toweling off his hair. "You’ve been talking to Per?"

"Thomas," Bastian corrected, perching beside him with one ankle hooked over the opposite knee. "Manuel can't keep a secret from him, and Thomas can't keep a secret period."

"Huh." Interesting. Philipp put the towel aside and bent down to lace up his shoes.

"I want to know why."

"Why what?"

"Why you told Manuel to do what makes him happy, but you can’t accept my choice to live the way I want. Or why you never want to talk about it. You pick."

Philipp straightened slowly. "You know I’d be the last person to disapprove of your lifestyle."

"Really? Because it seems like you’re only fine with it as long as I keep hiding." Bastian raised a hand to cut off Philipp’s protest, "And don’t say you don’t mean it, because you’ve worked pretty hard to talk me back into the closet. But I’m not going back, sorry, so can you just tell me what you’re so fucking afraid of?"

There was a sound not unlike betrayal beneath the frustration in Bastian’s voice, and Philipp felt his own shoulders sag under it. He pressed his palm into the bench instead, supporting himself on the weight of his left arm. He breathed.

"Because I’m worried," he said.

Bastian snorted. "About what? I promise I won’t be an embarrassment to club or country. The worst thing I’ve done since being a teenager was to talk Sarah into the beard deal, and she likes the arrangement."

"That’s not what I meant." He wished this would all just go away: the betrayal still haunting Bastian’s tone, the bitterness Philipp could hear lacing every other word. His own voice sounded very small, "I’m worried for you. They’re like wolves, Bastian."

"You think I don’t know that?"

"I think you tend to overestimate your own toughness," Philipp snapped, "and I don’t want to be there on the day you’re proven wrong, all right? That’s what I mean when I say I worry. If that’s a problem, well. I'm sorry."

Bastian stared at him. Then, "Fuck you." His voice was deathly soft. "Who are you to decide what I can or can’t handle?"

"I didn’t say that!"

"You think you can just wrap me in cotton and expect me to be okay, but that’s not how it works, Philipp. No, don’t— Just listen to me, goddammit!" Bastian’s glare looked more wounded than angry, and Philipp swallowed his protest.

Bastian said, "I know that it’ll be bad, but I’m prepared for the abuse and whatever else they’ve got, so I don’t need you to protect me. What I do need is for you to trust when I say that I’ll be fine. You trusted Manuel to make the right decision and survive the consequences, and that’s insulting because it says you think more of him than you do of me. And I bet you got pissed at him for what he said just like you did Mario. But my decision is still mine, whatever they said. Yeah, it’s nice to know I’ve got friends at my back. Doesn’t mean I needed their public declarations of support, the same way I don’t need anyone to go to the papers and outline homophobia for me."

"So what do you want me to say when Bunte comes begging for an interview again?" The words were out of Philipp’s mouth before he could stop himself. "That everything’s happy and coming out is no big deal because all football fans are loving and mature and completely nonjudgmental about things like that?"

"I’m just asking you to not put your money on the worst case scenario. A bit of optimism can actually go a long way, the same way confidence and support do. You’ve seen it work miracles two World Cups running, so you should know that. You of all people," Bastian repeated, and suddenly he sounded as tired as Philipp felt.

They lapsed into silence, Bastian dropping his face into his hands and Philipp staring toward the far wall. A dull _plok-plok_ just within the range of his hearing told him that he hadn’t turned the shower all the way off. He would have to do that before they left. _Also,_ the less evasive part of his mind informed him, _Bastian’s been holding all that in for a long time._

"You’re mad at me."

"’m not," Bastian mumbled, his words muffled by his hand. He lifted his head. "I’m not, all right? I just need you to understand. Promise me, Philipp."

It wasn't a question of understanding, Philipp wanted to say, wanted to scream. But Per’s words echoed in his thoughts: _Don’t do this to Bastian. It’s not fair to him._ Because Bastian deserved better, so much better. Tripping him up with a confession that neither of them had any power to address was not better. Complications were not better, and he was tired of life getting in the way of what he wanted—which was to grow old and know that he could still call Bastian and find a friend on the other end of the line. More than anything, he wanted this. He wanted just this one, unbroken thing, and it held him closer than fear.

So he pressed down on the weight of the words in his chest, pressed down on the bench beneath his palms and looked Bastian in the eye and promised that he would. He would try.

  


* * *  


  
That was February.

In March, they trounce Hamburg 6-0 and then lose to Inter in the Champions League for the second year running.

In April, they draw Nürnberg, and Van Gaal gets shown the door. They draw Frankfurt, and Bastian breaks his toe; he plays on anyway.

When Bunte comes knocking again in May, Philipp’s agent says yes for him before he can say no, and Philipp walks into that interview room with his promise to Bastian a shackle on his tongue. He does well for the first fifteen minutes. Then the reporter turns up his charm, tests the chains and picks the lock with easy rapport. Philipp forgets himself for a moment, and that’s all it takes. In exactly seven days’ time, that quote will be splashed across a glossy magazine page for all to see. Including Bastian.

 _An openly gay footballer would be exposed to abusive comments,_ he’d said. He’d let fear slip through. Stupid, so stupid.

Philipp rests his head against the steering wheel of his car and tries to think.

His phone beeps: a text from Claudia. She wants to know what he feels like for dinner. He replies, _Anythings fine, be back soon_ , then stares at the blinking arrow that tells him the text is sending, sending, sent. He clicks back to his contacts, mind racing. He types, _I did something really stupid,_ and sends that to Per.

A minute passes, then two. Three. Five. Six and a half minutes later, Philipp is just about to turn the key in the ignition when his phone buzzes, twice:

  
**Per:** _Wut did u say 2 bunte?_  
**Per:** _If ur still in the parking lot stay put. Dont txt n drive_

  
And in that moment, Philipp is absurdly glad for Per’s insight and his bluntness.

  
**Philipp:** _Promised bastian i would be positive but interview didnt quite go as planned._  
**Per:** _Figured. Wut xctly did u say?_  
**Philipp:** _The truth, that it would be v difficult for openly gay player._  
**Per:** _U need 2 stop doin ur mom thing_  
**Per:** _I dont think he needs the reminder he knows_  
**Philipp:** _Thats what he said too..._

  
The pause is longer this time, but Philipp waits. He watches as the sun dips lower in the sky beyond his windshield. He wonders what Claudia is doing, if she’s studying her cookbook or tying back her hair to prepare a recipe she knows by heart. He thinks of bottled red wine. Of ice cracking and clinking against the glass.

His phone buzzes:

_Talk 2 him_

  


* * *  


  
But he says nothing during practice the next day. Tomorrow, Philipp tells himself, but tomorrow turns into tomorrow and then the weekend is gone and now he’s sitting by the phone on Wednesday evening, wondering how much longer he can delay before the gesture loses its last traces of dignity.

Already past that point, he realizes as his cell phone chirrups. The caller ID reads: _Bastian_. He breathes, lifts the phone to his ear.

"Hey."

"So I have some good news and some bad news," Bastian says cheerfully. "You want the good first?"

Philipp blinks. "Um, sure. What’s the good news?"

"The good news is that you get to say, ‘I told you so,’ because I did enough damage to my toe playing those last three games that Dr. Wohlfahrt said I’ll have to miss the rest of the qualifiers."

It takes Philipp a second to remember: _I don’t want to be there on the day you’re proven wrong._ Shit. "Bastian—"

"And the bad news is the same, but from my point of view."

"...It’s not exactly good news to me either."

"I know," Bastian says. The smile fades from his voice, "I just thought I’d tell you."

When the silence begins to stretch too thin, Philipp says, "Actually there’s something I need to tell you, too," but doesn’t know how to begin. _I screwed up,_ sounds too contrite and, _I spoke my mind,_ not enough. He opens his mouth—

"Is this about the interview?"

—and the words wither on his tongue. "You’ve already read it."

"You don’t have to bullshit me a reason for why you said what you did. I just got off the phone with Per."

No. _No._ Per wouldn’t. Except apparently he did, because Bastian is saying,

"Why don’t you ever tell me these things?" and he’s distant, hurt. Philipp wants but doesn’t know how to close the gap, take this broken thing between them and put it back together again.

"I guess I don’t need to if you have other people to tell you everything."

"That’s not an answer."

"He’s already told you."

"And I want to hear you say it, not him. Waiting for you gets old really fucking fast, okay? You never give me a straight answer and you still won’t and I am _tired_ of this, Phil."

Philipp closes his eyes. A clock ticks in the adjacent room.

"You’re my friend," he tells Bastian. "I’ve—had feelings for you for a long time. But we both know it’s not going to go anywhere, so I didn’t see any point in making things more complicated than they already are."

There's the sound of a door closing, feather-light beyond the phone pressed to his ear, and for a moment he remembers how sound travels in this house, but then Bastian is saying, voice thick,

"Why couldn't you just _tell_ me?"

"Because it doesn't change anything—"

"Like hell it doesn't!"

"I don't want it to!" Philipp curls his fingers until the nails dig into skin. "I don't want this to screw things up between us."

Bastian draws a ragged breath. "Okay. Fine." His tone falls cold on Philipp's ears. "You're right. Fine. It doesn’t change anything."

"I really don't—"

"I know. Sorry I asked."

They wait, unspeaking, each for the other to be the first.

Philipp breaks sooner. "I still want you as a friend."

"I know. I know, it’s." Bastian exhales into the mouthpiece, "Sorry. It's just. We can talk more later. I have to go, Sarah’s got this thing. We’ll talk later."

"Okay," Philipp says, "we'll talk," and a soft click tells him that the conversation is over.

He lets his arm drop slowly, the phone heavy in his hand.

They won’t talk, he knows as he heads upstairs. Not later, not ever. They say many things, but they never talk. There's a difference.

Claudia doesn't come to bed that night. He stares at walls and misses the sound of her opening the door, the rustling of cloth as she pulls a nightgown over her shoulders and loosens her hair in the dark. The phone is cold in his hands. He thinks about going to look for her, but can't bring himself to leave this bed.

So he lies in silence and waits for morning, too tired to even sleep.

  


* * *

_Taboos—regardless of whether it is sexual orientation, depression, or many others—are always enemies of freedom and human dignity._

_The DFB will take decisive action against every form of discrimination. Girls and boys should play football, whatever their sexual orientation._

_We must make sure that everyone in football can live without fear._

—[Theo](http://www.11freunde.de/newsticker/137165) [Zwanziger](http://news.pinkpaper.com/NewsStory.aspx?id=2358)


End file.
